


Wipe You Clean with Dirty Hands

by verbaepulchellae



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Bellamy and Clarke don't know how to be kind to one another, Canon Divergence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post 3x04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5994877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbaepulchellae/pseuds/verbaepulchellae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think you think you’re tough enough to give it to me.” She goads him and her free hand finds his shoulders and scratches scorching nails down his back. He’s still got one of her arms pinned to the wall, but with the limited motion she’s afforded her fingers find the button of his pants and pops it open. “And I think you want to an excuse to fuck me.”</p><p>Clarke returns to Arkadia after Pike's massacre. Bellamy isn't ready to face her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wipe You Clean with Dirty Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Spanish Sahara" by The Foals. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos always brighten my day.

He knows she’s back. He’d seen her come in, some sort of traveling hood tossed over her hair, holding herself in that same detached manner she had when he’d last seen her. He had watched her across camp, seen her greet her mother without any physical affection, seen her head turn and felt her eyes find him instinctually. He had turned on his heel and walked away. 

It’s been two days and Bellamy keeps his head down. It’s not hard, none of the remaining hundred will speak to him, Lincoln can’t look at him and Gina’s ghost smiles sadly at him when he wakes up screaming under the press of bodies he’s killed. Pike has requested he join the council but Bellamy declines. He assigns himself to maintenance detail and it feels right to think of himself as Janitor Blake again. 

He runs into Clarke late on her third night in Arcadia. He doesn’t mean to, but Gina’s ghost has driven him from his room and he’s been walking the perimeter of camp to clear his head, watching not the tree line but his own feet. His head is full of blood and screams and he will walk himself to exhaustion if it promises him a moment of peace. 

He’s at the South West corner of Arkadia, currently set aside for repurposing scrap metal and thus uninhabited in when he hears soft footsteps. He looks up, expecting to find someone on guard duty and his stomach lurches when it’s not. It’s her. She looks just as surprised to find him and he sees her hesitate for a moment, something flashing across her face, before she schools her features and continues toward him.

“Can’t sleep either?” she asks him cooly. He would miss the old warmth and familiarity in her tone if he weren’t too consumed by his own resentment. “Killing innocent people will do that.”

“Ambassador,” he says cuttingly formal and pushes himself off the wall to keep walking. He can’t look at her face without cold rage curling in his chest. 

“So now you’re not speaking to me?” Clarke snaps. He doesn’t turn back to look at her but he can hear the soft tread of her steps pick up speed. He’s not above lengthening his own stride, not anymore. 

“Well that’s real fucking mature,” Clarke snarls behind him. “Are you seriously running away from me, Bellamy? You think that’s going to make what you’ve done go away?”

The cold rage in his chest flashes white hot and burns him. He stops dead, breath stuck in his lungs and he whirls on her. She’s so close behind him that he nearly crashes into her. He laughs in her face, a little wildly. “Oh you’re asking me that? You’re asking- why don’t you fucking tell me, Clarke?” He spits. He see’s hurt and surprise whir lightning fast through her eyes before they’re snapping in anger.

“I couldn’t stay,” Clarke says quietly, her tone hard but trembling with fury. “I had to leave.”

“Really. You had to leave.” Bellamy repeats her, fighting to keep his voice down. “And did that help? Did you manage to forget all the people you killed? Did you manage to forgive yourself?”

“Fuck you,” Clarke growls. “Fuck you, Bellamy.”

“Because you sure as hell left me with a mess to clean up. Ever think about that, Clarke? Ever think about the position you put me in when you decided to turn tail and play Grounder?”

“I did what I had to do,” Clarke says. She tilts her chin up at him, eyes harder than he’s ever seen them and it makes him furious. 

“Fuck that, Clarke. Monty and I were in the exact same position as you and you know what? We stayed and faced our problems. We’re still facing them and you’re up playing Ambassador in some tower, huh?”

“I’m protecting our people.”

“No, Clarke, you’re still running from your problems. You are a trophy for the Commander with a fancy title. What do you do? Offer some advice she pretends to listen to and then continues with her own agenda. And even if she did listen,” Bellamy spits, “You have no idea what’s best for our people. Not anymore”

“I know,” Clarke says infuriatingly close to his face, “that killing an army sent for your protection is very likely going to be what gets us all killed. That’s on your head, Bellamy.”

“I didn’t have a choice!”

“You’ve always had a choice! What the hell happened to you, Bellamy?” Clarke shoves at his chest. “Tell me! What childhood trauma are we reliving now?”

And that’s too far. Not with Gina so fresh, not with over forty people dead because of him and three hundred Grounders dead because of his bullets. Before he can control himself he’s shoving her back against the wall, fingers biting into her arms and using his weight to keep her pinned even as she thrashes against him.

“You have no idea what I’ve lost,” Bellamy snarls into her face. “You have no idea what I’ve given up trying to bring you home. And you… you just… you just…” Fury and bone deep despair choke his words from him. He sees something in Clarke’s eyes break, something spark and Bellamy can’t help it. He crushes his mouth to hers, biting more than kissing. It’s vicious, lips pressed together with bruising force, teeth knocking teeth painfully. Clarke is frozen under him for half a second and then she’s biting back at his mouth, sinking her teeth into his lower lip painfully. 

“Fuck you,” she says against his mouth and he feels his blood on her lips. “Don’t you dare blame this on me.” She kisses him again tongue against his lip, licking his blood into her mouth, pushing it into his and Bellamy let’s go of one of her arms to grab at her hair, dreaded and messy, and roughly angle her head the way he wants her. 

She always feels so big in her presence, so much more than him, but when she’s trapped under his body like this, she feels so small. He presses his full weight into her, along her, and wrestles his tongue into her mouth to tangle against hers. She tastes like his blood; it makes him growl into her mouth and she responds in a breathy little whine. That noise goes straight to his dick and he grinds it into her hip. “Fuck me, Clarke?” he asks her, barely drawing back enough to speak, “Oh no, I think it’s fuck you.”

He tugs her head back at what must be a painful angle to bite at her jaw and her neck, but Clarke just whimpers at the sting of his teeth. He licks up her neck in a broad stroke of his tongue and tugs her hair to make her look at him. Her eyes are sharp and present and she pulls against his hand in her hair to slam her mouth back into his. Bellamy groans at that and slots a leg between hers, presses his thigh up into her cunt and feels her breath stutter against his mouth.

“You think you deserve this?” Bellamy snarls and pulls back from the kiss to watch her as he flexes his leg into her, watches as she fights to keep her eyes open against his slow grind.

“I think you think you’re tough enough to give it to me.” She goads him and her free hand finds his shoulders and scratches scorching nails down his back. He’s still got one of her arms pinned to the wall, but with the limited motion she’s afforded her fingers find the button of his pants and pops it open. “And I think you want to an excuse to fuck me.”

And if that hits close to home, Bellamy doesn’t give her time to register it. He spins her around and presses her face first into the wall. She fights him but he catches her wrists and pins them above her head. “Tell me to stop,” he says into her ear. “If it’s only me, then tell me to stop.”

She doesn’t, just rocks her hips back into him and Bellamy bites her shoulder roughly. “That’s what I thought. Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought.” He grips her wrists with one hand and gets his other hands on her tits. “You are so unbelievably infuriating,” he says into her ear as he finds her nipple through her shirt and gives it a rough pinch. She jerks against him and he laughs low into her ear. “Like my hands on your tits, Clarke?”

“I’d like it better if you were muzzled. Do you ever shut up?” He pinches her other nipple just as hard and then palms the weight of her breast in his hand, squeezes her without any gentleness. 

“No,” Bellamy says. “I’m not going to let you forget who’s fucking you, Clarke.” He lets go of her tits and scratches his nails down her stomach and slips his hand into her leather leggings. “I’m not letting you run from this too.”

“Go float yourself,” Clarke snaps back, but Bellamy’s fingers find her clit and he presses down punishingly, rubbing hard and Clarke’s breath catches audibly. Her hips jerk again but he doesn’t let her escape it, leans forward into her ass so she has nowhere to go. She twitches against him, trembling.

“Tell me it feels good,” Bellamy demands. “Tell me you like my hands on you.”

“I-” Clarke chokes and Bellamy sinks his teeth into her neck viciously. “I- I…” she stammers and Bellamy figures that’s good enough. There’s a small shelf of metal on the wall next to his hand, two large sheets soldered imperfectly together. He pushes Clarke’s hands into it. 

“Hold that,” he orders. He feels Clarke’s fingers scrabble against it to find purchase and he tugs her back so that she’s bent forward, ass out and the long stretch of her arms extended up and out in front of her. “You let go,” he warns as he pulls his hands free of her leggings and tugs them down, baring her to the chill of the night air. “And you’ll regret it.”

Clarke snarls something back at him that he doesn’t catch, her face turned into her arm to support her head. Bellamy rubs his hand over her cunt, cursorily. She’s slick but she’s not as wet as he wants her to be. He wants to fuck her out of her mind, fuck his anger into her and make her feel it, but he’s not all that keen on either of them chafing themselves raw. 

He thinks about spitting on her, having her suck his fingers and lubing her up that way, but she’s right. He has wanted her. He’s wanted her for so long that he can’t remember what his life is like without the ache for her in his chest. His anger hasn’t quite purged that feeling from him yet. He can’t help but indulging that hurt, tender place in his chest that holds how this should have happened: both of them happy and safe and wanting each other, free of other responsibilities. 

He drops to knees behind her and leans in to lick at her hard. He hears her muffled swearing above him and he presses his nose into her perineum and jabs his tongue into her roughly. He pulls her open with this thumbs and gives it to her hard, rocking his head in short bobs to make sure she feels it. She doesn’t taste like blood here, rather citric and like iodine, dark and musky and a little sweet. He growls at her taste and sucks roughly at her, gets his teeth on her and likes that it makes her whine. He tilts his chin up and rocks it into her clit, knowing he’s got some stubble there, knowing it must sting even as the pressure feels good. 

He can feel Clarke’s legs start to tremble under his hands and the slide of his mouth and face against her gets easier as he gets her wet, as she slicks up. He swats at her ass as he stands up, a sharp smack against her pale skin and Clarke glares over her shoulder at him. She’s flushed and her eyes are a little glassy and Bellamy sneers at her even as he pulls his cock out and rubs it along her cunt, getting it wet.

“Just hurry up and fuck me, Bellamy.” Clarke demands, pushing back against him. 

“Don’t you give me orders, Clarke,” Bellamy snarls back and then grabs her hips, pushes her around a bit just because he can before he thrusts hard and fast into her. _Fuck_ but it feels good. He bottoms out inside her, and she’s hot and wet and so tight, goddamn.

“Didn’t know you were so sweet, Clarke,” Bellamy rasps even as he pulls back and then snaps his hips forward again hard, “Damn, you’re so fucking wet. Does it turn you on when we fight? Should I just have fucked you back at the Dropship? Would you have listened to me then?”

Clarke doesn’t reply, she’s turned and buried her face into her arm again, panting wetly. She flutters around him though, and when Bellamy sets up a punishingly fast rhythm it knocks little helpless noises from her mouth. She gets wetter.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you,” Bellamy snarls. He slaps her ass again and holds her hips still so he can piston into her however he likes. There’s a joyful anger in him, evolving with his pleasure from the white hot rage before, and it feels good. It sings through his veins, makes him feel alive for the first time in weeks. It rushes through his body and finds the dark hatred that sits in his chest. It’s the sight of Clarke bent forward, fingers white with her grip on the little ledge of metal and the helpless little noises she makes under him that suddenly cause that dark, twisted place inside him expand. It’s another rush of cold, all consuming anger- makes Bellamy dig his hands suddenly tight into her skin and then, in an instant, it’s gone.

He finds in it’s place exhaustion and despair and a need for this girl to let him be kind to her that overwhelms him with it’s intensity. That ache for her that he’s tried so hard to forget is all he can feel and he has to slow the snap of his hips, has to gasp for breath and lean forward and rest his head against her shoulder because this isn’t how he wants them to be. This isn’t who they are.

She feels the change in him and shifts, trying to turn to look at him. He quiets her with a hand stroking down her spine, as gently as he can, pressing his love for her into her skin, kissing her gently on her shoulder blade. “Clarke,” he whispers.

“No. No!” Clarke thrashes suddenly under him, fighting him sincerely for the first time. “Bellamy, no, you can’t.”

Worried, Bellamy draws back, still inside her but stilling his movements. He thumbs at her lower back, trying to sooth her. “Clarke?”

“You can’t… you can’t… Bellamy you can’t be good to me.” Her voice breaks as she says it and she shudders. “Don’t be good to me. Not you. Not after what I’ve…”

He doesn’t let her finish before he’s hauling her up against his chest, slipping out of her so he can turn her and prop her up against the wall. There are tears on her face, tracks through the grime and dirt there and it breaks Bellamy’s heart. “Please,” she begs. “Please.”

He lifts her hips up and slips back inside her even as he wraps her legs around his hips and takes her weight. “Ok,” he whispers back to her, kisses her as gently as he can, she turns her head from him and he lets her go. “It’s ok.”

He rocks into her, grinding deep inside her and she drops her head back back against the wall. He mouths at her shoulder instead of kissing her mouth and she shakes against him. “Please just hate me,” she says. “It’s easier if you hate me.” Her fingers dig into his shoulders and he buries his face in her neck and fucks her as hard as she needs him to. He wants to give her everything. He would kill and die for this girl a thousand times over. He would forgive her and find the forgiveness she needs from herself deep inside her and rewrite it into her bones. He wants her to come home to him. 

He knows she can’t hear any of that right now. Instead he drops his thumb to her clit and rubs her as hard and punishingly as he had before. 

She twists and whines against him, voice gone high and breathy in her pleasure. When he pauses to lick his thumb she goes wild against him, bucking up and trying to find the friction she wants against his abs. “You’re ok,” he soothes her and brushes her hair out of her face even as it makes his heart hurt. He gets his thumb back between their bodies and really gives it to her, vibrates it roughly against her in a way that must be painful but she bucks up against him for more.

He grinds deeper into her and rotates his hips and Clarke’s head drops forward onto his shoulder with a helpless moan. She shudders, hands scrambling to find purchase along his sweaty back. “That’s right. Let’s get you there.” He fucks her hard until he feels her clench up around him, tight and sweet and so fucking hot, and she gasps helplessly into his skin. The intensity of her orgasm undoes him and he grips her as he empties himself hard inside her, growling with his pleasure. 

They catch their breath, still clinging to one another and sticky with sweat and a little bit of blood and spit. Clarke’s hair is a mess: in both of their mouths and stuck to their skin. He feels her tears against his shoulder and bites her carefully to help her stop crying. 

She finally shifts against him and Bellamy pulls back enough to slip out of her before he sets her gently on the ground. She doesn’t look at him, even when he strips off his shirt and offers it to her to clean up. Her hair hangs in her face as she pulls her leggings back up and they stand awkwardly together in the early haze of dawn.

“We’re going to be at war,” Clarke says finally, tipping her head back against the wall and looking up at the sky. “If Lexa isn’t forced to into that decision, Pike will make it first.”

Bellamy watches her and she finally turns to look at him. “People are going to die, Bellamy.”

“Tell me what to do.” Clarke has a plan. Clarke always has a plan.


End file.
